


relapse

by enigmaticwayfarer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blind Sherlock, M/M, blind!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticwayfarer/pseuds/enigmaticwayfarer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Johnlock Challenge. The prompt was "Sherlock is extremely bored and pissed off. So he locks himself in the bathroom and shoots up. Even so, he’s still so wired that he pulls out a razor and begins to cut himself. Unfortunately for Sherlock, John shows up and realizes something is wrong. He kicks down the door and finds Sherlock high as a kite and bleeding. Make it as angsty or fluffy as you like! But I love angst."<br/>Since they said they didn't mind AUs, I decided on a Blind Sherlock for this one to further explain why he did this.<br/>In short, John and Sherlock have a momentary relapse. They help each other out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	relapse

_relapse (ri'laps ) : verb; a deterioration in someone's state of health after a temporary improvement._  
  
It's one am and John should be sleeping.

He's not. He hasn't slept for hours. Inside the bathroom, the blood isn't coming off the edge of the tub and he is swearing, quite loudly and with wild abandon.

"Dammit."

"Shit."

" _Fuck_."

Sherlock's in the doorway, his hands holding onto either side of the worn wooden frame, saying nothing. He can smell the stale blood and his arms give a twinge.

John is still swearing.

"Dammit."

"Shit."

" _Fuck._ "

It's right here, not for the first time, Sherlock wishes that he wasn't a congenital anomaly. That maybe, his eyes could work for only a moment, so he could see his lover. His skin is probably taunt over his hands, his back bending as if broken, his hands red and raw from scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

Although, maybe it's good he can't see. If he could see, then he'd feel regret, and he's trained himself not to. Still, images infect his mind. John's face must look like the way winter snow feels when you've held it for too long.

Dammit. Regret.

His arms give another twinge and, over the chorus of dammitshit _fuck_ , he murmurs a soft, "John."

The chorus ceases and Sherlock hears the creak of old shoes turning on tiles, the crack of old knees straightening. It's only because this has happened before, this state of confrontation, that the detective knows John's face is decorated with creases and eyes that feels like a rain when you've had plans to go out.

Sherlock wishes he could count each wrinkle just by looking.

"Did you know more than ninety nine point nine percent of an atom’s volume is empty space?"

Silence rears his ugly head for one hundred and twenty seven seconds.

Then John sighs and murmurs, "Go to bed Sherlock."

Shoes creak, back breaks, and the scrubbing sound resumes. Sherlock stands in the doorway for another moment before replying in a voice etched with wear and tear, "Of course. One must put the deadweight away each night."

He hears the scrubbing pause as he turns and moves through the small hall to their room. Then it continues, much harder before, like its the plague, like its something he needs to wipe out of existence, like its nothing but a spot on John's heart instead of on porcelain.

The strange thing is, Sherlock knows it sort of feels like that.

 

\- - -

It is another seven hundred twenty seconds before John enters their bedroom. His footsteps are heavy and laden with things he doesn't know how to say.  
Sherlock is laying in bed, on his side, back to John. His fingers trace the bandages John has covered his arms in. They aren't wet, but rather dry and cracky. The bleeding has stopped then, which he supposes is good. For some people.

He doesn't stop tracing as John slides under the duvet, fully clothed, movements slow and abounding with pain and he doesn't stop tracing as he feels the warmth of John's body on his.

They lay in bed together, back to back, for a long time without saying anything.

Sherlock knows John doesn't say anything because there isn't anything the blonde can say without repeating himself like he has a hundred times.

Sherlock doesn't say anything because he's already told John just exactly what he is, just exactly what he does, just exactly why he does it.

Finally the quiet comes to a head and John, as always, is the first to burst.

"You should have called."

Sherlock's fingers pause over a slice of bandage, where he knows a particular cut is laying beneath. It's the longest of all three on his arm, the one where he had felt the most pain, the one where he had felt something like sight.

"I didn't want to."

The words are delivered with no menace, but John reacts as such, drawing back. Sherlock is sure his partner resembles the smell of a house that hasn't been aired out in years; dry, stale. Lonely.

John settles back into his space, drawing himself inwards, letting out a shuddery breath. Sherlock doesn't say anything, though he wants to. He wants to say, John. He wants to say, you don't understand. He wants to say, you can't possibly know what it's like to never be able to see your face or look at a painting or examine a chemical reaction as it happens. He wants to say that at least he's not doing it everyday, at least he's not taking stupid risks, not letting that man come close to choking him or having the robber almost slice his throat. _At least I'm not doing that, John, at least I'm not doing that so I can see._

He says nothing. Instead, fingers wrap around the bandages and give a squeeze. From the moment the slight hiss of breath escapes, John is around him in a second, grabbing his hand, tugging it off.

Sherlock struggles, wirthing beneath the other like a worm. "John." He growls, trying to pull away.

But John is stronger.

"John."

John is faster.

"John."

John can see.

"John."

His wrists are pinned, his arms are smarting and John's breath is coming hard on his face.

Sherlock swallows.

"Kiss me."

John does.

It's one fify a.m and Sherlock should be sleeping.

He's not.

 

\- - -

" _John. John. John_." Sherlock chants the man's name like a prayer, hand slapping the pillow with each murmur, and his words never felt like something so beautifully sad, so intensely desperate.

John gives a slow grind of his hips and Sherlock gasps. "Yes. John. _Yes_."

They are naked, sweaty, drunk on anger and pleasure. Sherlock is pressed completely against the sheets, his bare body rubbing against it, chafing his skin. His arms are killing him, and that's good. John is fucking him and that's better.

It's hard, it's rough and Sherlock wants to scream. Instead he groans, a needy soundtrack of, "more, more, more," dueted with John's pants and soft touches and hungry movements. He shoves his matchstick arms under the pillows as John thrusts into him over and over and over again. He locks them there, because he knows if they're out in the open John will only be able to look at the bandages and Sherlock can't have that. He wants John to look at him.

Sherlock tells himself that this is just John leaking his rage, draining it away from his body, becoming cleansed. Of course, Sherlock is a genius, and a genius knows when he is lying to himself.

John gives another thrust and even Sherlock's thoughts lose their breath.

"Don't . . . forget . . . me. Sherlock." The blonde pants, arms around the detective. "Don't you dare . . . forget I'm here now. . ."

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, sensation of all sorts tightening his stomach, his chest. He tries to say John's name but finds he's feeling far too much all at once to say anything and the syllables leave his lips with barely a whisper.

When they come, they come together and Sherlock swears it's happening again; he swears he can see the sheets he's laying on, swears he can look at the pillow beneath him, swears that if he just turned his head right, stretched his neck just enough he could see the way orgasm wracked through the man he loved so much.  
But then it fades like the pain had done, it fades like the high he came down from when John had kicked in the bathroom doorway and found him in the bath, blood dripping onto the tiles below. It fades and now Sherlock is left feeling a bit empty, a bit lost.

John pulls out and turns Sherlock around him to hold him close and kiss his forehead.

Sherlock stays awake, tracing John's face with his fingers, his mouth, his tongue. John stays awake letting him.

It's two forty five a.m.

No one sleeps.

 

\- - -

Morning dawns and John gives a yawn. Sherlock waits impatiently before placing his fingers back on the man's mouth, where they have been lingering for a while now.

It's been quiet for some time but John finally whispers, "I'm not going to ask you why you did what you did. I know why. I just--" His voice stops and Sherlock feels his lips stutter. After a moment, John starts again. "-I just want to know why I'm not enough for you."

Oh. Out of all the words and sentences and exclamations Sherlock is expecting, that certainly was at the bottom of the list.  
John is more than enough. John is beautiful, a buffet of touch, taste, smell, and sound that Sherlock is allowed to sample any time he wants. John is someone he doesn't ever want to let go, someone he can kiss and lick and bite and hug and hold. John is- John is-

John is more than enough.

His arms twinge. He wishes they would stop that. The pain doesn't feel so good anymore.

"John," Sherlock begins but John makes a soft 'hmm' and he stops.

"I'm just asking you to listen to me. I love you and-- just listen to me. Just tell me what I need to do to help. Whatever it is, I'll do it. I just want you to be safe. And feel loved."

Sherlock lets out a breath and dips his head, fingers curling in on themselves, still pressed to the other's lips.

" . . . I can't see John."

A warm covers his hand and John's fingers intertwine with his.

"You don't have to."

They kiss, which turns into slow lovemaking all morning. At the end, when they're exhausted, Sherlock turns his head to John and announces, "You are more than enough John.

More than I can ever devour."

He can't see it, but the sudden warmth in the warm feels more than just a stray ray of sunlight.

"I love you too."

They hold each other, smiling shyly and Sherlock feels like the relapse is over and so begins the repair.

 

\- - -

They get a dog. Sherlock doesn't call it a service dog and neither does John. Somehow, that makes it just a bit better.

Years pass. The dog grows older. When John and Sherlock fight, he holds it close and ends up falling asleep like that. John doesn't get mad, just doubles up on covers and sleeps.

Years pass. The dog is even older but still excitable and eager. Sherlock is the same, and he's smiling a bit more than he remembers. John takes great pains to make sure to kiss him every day. Sherlock welcomes each and every one.

A year passes. The dog is at the foot of the bed, far too big to sleep anywhere else. John and Sherlock are lying close, John's arm around the other's waist. Steady breathing, calm faces, though both are wide awake.

John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes. "You okay?" He asks into dark curls.

The curls shiver with a slow intake of breath. "Getting there."

John believes him.

It's one a.m.

They sleep.


End file.
